What the Water Gave Me
by UA
Summary: She must be dreaming. That's the only logical explanation. Set between Seasons 2 and 3, the winter before they found the Prison. Inspired by this dialogue prompt: "We're going to freeze to death." Caryl.


_**What the Water Gave Me**_

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 **Inspired by this dialogue prompt: "We're going to freeze to death."**

 _ **Carol and Daryl**_

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 _ **...**_

It's bitter, bone-achingly cold outside, so cold her breath puffs from her mouth in little gauzy clouds, like _smoke,_ and Carol smiles grimly at the thought because she'd gladly give her left arm for a nice cozy fire right now. Throw in a couple of fuzzy blankets and a steaming mug of hot chocolate, and well. She's enough of a burden to Daryl and the others already. No sense satisfying her selfish desires, even if only in her fantasies, so she focuses on moving her feet forward, always forward. Heel-toe, heel-toe like he'd taught her, but the ground is hard, not quite frozen but close enough, and it's a hopeless cause to keep quiet. The crunch of her boots on the fallen forest leaves and twigs seems to echo with each step, and she wonders anew why he'd chosen her to accompany him on this scouting trek when T, Glenn, even Maggie would have been a better, more able-bodied choice. She opens her mouth to ask him just that when he holds up a staying, silent hand in front of her, tilts his head.

Gradually, Daryl's shoulders relax, and he glances back at her, his steely gaze taking on a hopeful glint. "Hear that?"

Carol hears only her heart, thudding between her ears. The wheezing pant of her lungs, whistling from her parted mouth. The rustle of the frigid breeze, stirring through the few leaves that cling desperately to the trees and making them dance. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that brings a smile to her mouth, and so, she frowns and shakes her head slowly, reluctant to disappoint him. "No."

Releasing a frustrated huff, Daryl steps closer to her, his crossbow bouncing lightly against his back. "You ain't listenin'."

Indignation swells within her chest, tall as any tidal wave, and she straightens her shoulders, twists her mouth in denial. "I _am_."

"No," Daryl insists. "You ain't."

His words swirl between them, just as restless and agitated in movement as they are in tone, and Carol sighs, says again. "Daryl, I am." Her eyes are drawn to his feet, his weight shuffling from one to the other. The twitch of his fingers on the strap of his crossbow as he shirks it from his shoulder, lets it rest lightly against the nearest tree's gnarled trunk. "Daryl, I…"

"Close your eyes."

Feeling a bit foolish, she nevertheless gives in to his demand, her lashes fluttering lightly against her cheeks and her heartbeat regaining momentum, growing more erratic. She knows she's vulnerable in this position, _exposed_. She trusts Daryl, more than she trusts any other member of their group, and yet…

"Jesus, Woman. M'right here. _Breathe_."

Carol feels him step closer, and his boots nudge against her own. She shivers, but it's not from the cold, not entirely, and she breathes. Listens and finally hears it. Faint at first, just a quiet burble, it grows more distinct as the seconds pass, and her pale fingers clutch at his threadbare sleeve. Her eyes open, and they smile at him, reflect his growing hope. "Water."

"Water **."**

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 **xxx**

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She follows in Daryl's wake, up a slight hill, the toes of her boots snagging in tree roots and making her stumble. Through a small clearing, the sky gray overhead and the dead grass snarled underfoot, her trembling hand never straying far from the unwieldy knife at her belt as her blue eyes keep careful watch. Down, down, _down_ a steep ravine, where the burble has become a rush, a steady onward flow over rocks and around fallen trees. Clear and clean, at least to her untrained eye, the winding creek is a welcome sight, and she looks to Daryl, only to find his gaze drawn elsewhere. Some far-off point amongst the trees. "Daryl?" she softly presses when the moment draws long.

Still, his eyes stay trained ahead. His shoulders sharp and unmovable. His feet planted wide.

His whole posture is rigid, like an animal spooked by the smallest of noises, the most miniscule of movements, but he shakes it off when Carol murmurs his name again, looks down at her with eyes that have taken on the hue of the winter sky when she brings them shoulder to shoulder. "What is it? You see something?" She follows his line of vision but sees nothing except a wall of trees, tall and skeletal, their spindly arms seemingly linked in a fencelike chain. The sight makes her shiver, from her head down to her toes. She plays it off, though. Blames it on the chill, and it _is_ cold, exceedingly so in the shadowed ravine. Upon closer inspection, a thin sheen of ice skims the stream's shallower depths, and her thoughts drift to Carl, to Beth, to Lori, and she worries because a mother doesn't just shut off those protective feelings. They're engrained, deep in her DNA, and Carol knows she'll die with them. But those are thoughts too heavy, too much of a distraction for this excursion she's found herself on with Daryl, and she allows her fingers to skate lightly across the back of his hand. That tiny touch is all that is needed to pull him back to the present, to her.

"Naw."

He's not very convincing, and it must show on her face, because he brings his thumb to his mouth, gnaws it in consideration. Shrugs in indecision when she raises her brows in question.

"Maybe," he concedes. "M'not sure."

It doesn't escape her notice, how his hand hovers over the strap of his crossbow. How he crouches, brushes at the crumbling leaves at their feet, traces his fingers over the damp earth there. Squints in the same direction as before. "Daryl?"

"Get to work," he deflects her concern. "Losing light. Ain't got all day."

Carol shrugs her pack off of her shoulders, digs through its meager contents to recover the plastic bottles, ever-present these days and always in need of replenishment. She doesn't feel the hoped-for relief. Doesn't comment on it either because Daryl's right, even if she gets the feeling he's not being completely honest with her. They're losing light.

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 **xxx**

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The deer is a distraction. With its flicking ears, its gentle, haunted gaze, it draws them in. Draws them onward.

Carol doesn't dare to breathe, doesn't dare to talk either, and so, her scream is frozen in her throat when the Walker surprises her. Stumbles from the cover of the trees with its jaws snapping, its mangled arms reaching. Always reaching.

Daryl is several feet ahead, his focus entirely on the animal.

He's too far away to help anyway, and Carol's fingers are panicked as they fumble for her knife, _clumsy_ with cold and overwhelming fear. She thinks of Sophia lost in a forest not much different than this one, not all that long ago. Wonders if she felt the same icy curl of terror constrict tighter and tighter around her heart, make breathing something impossible, screaming silent. Salt tears catch on her lips as she scrambles backward, feels the raw bite of the water sink into her bones as it splashes around her ankles, then her thighs, wicks up her worn clothes. It's the pain, too close to the surface, that shackles her wrists, rends her fingers useless at fending off the dead creature's advance. Submerged as she is, nearly waist deep, her blood rapidly cools in her veins, and her muscles grow weak, _quiver_. Still, she scrambles, her feet slipping and sliding on the slick rock bed until they lose purchase, and she falls back, her mouth still open on that silent scream. She falls back and she goes under, under until her fingers feel rocks and mud and silt beneath their clawing nails. Under until that cold, clear water seems to seep into every cell in her weary, aching body. Under until everything blurs, and then there is just… _nothing_.

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Hands grab her at her shoulders, suddenly and without gentleness. They pull and they claw and they gather her close, won't let go, even when she sputters out a feeble protest. She fights, she _tries,_ but everything feels so heavy. Her arms, her legs, her _heart_. She tries, she does, but eventually she just…stops.

Everything is gray.

The sky between her heavy, drifting eyelids. The water that surrounds her. Her skin, and Carol wonders. Is she one of them now? Is this what Jim felt like? When he finally gave up the fight? When he followed the call of his lost family? Left this Hell on Earth behind? Is this how her baby…

Everything is gray.

She thought there'd be light, bright as the sun but it wouldn't hurt her eyes. She thought there'd be peace, not pain. Not this utter heaviness that drags her down. She thought there'd be warmth, but there is only cold. So much bitter, heart stuttering cold, she should be numb, but she's not. She's not, and she doesn't understand. She can't make sense of it no matter how hard she tries.

Everything is gray.

And Carol? She just… _stops_.

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 **xxx**

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Carol's chest hurts.

Hands still press into her skin. Heavy and rough, they linger.

Her chest hurts. That's all she knows. That's all she feels beyond the hands that still hover. Her chest hurts, and she's felt this pain before. Couldn't breathe deep for months. Couldn't escape the dull pain or the memories of Ed's rage. Had to relive it with every pull of air in and out of her lungs, just like he wanted her to, and the pained moan crawls out of her parted mouth without her consent. The tears pool and slip into her hair, and those hands? They gentle.

"That's it. That's it, Woman. Just breathe. _Just_ _fuckin'_ _breathe_."

Carol coughs, and the simple act sets fire to her frozen bones. She groans. Coughs again, turns her head to spit out a trickle of creek water, and those gentle, calloused hands cup her neck afterward, draw her upward. Draw her into the shelter of his trembling arms, and she rests her weary head against his shoulder, so broad and so strong. Clings to the front of his shirt with nerveless fingers and whines. " _Cold_."

Daryl barks out a laugh, harsh and holding an edge of hysteria. "No, shit. Damn deer got away. Turned back just in time to see you go under, that dead fuck right behind you. Don't know what kind of guardian angel you got watchin' over you. Just know it kept you safe long enough for me to fish you out. Then you wasn't breathing. Couldn't feel a pulse, and _shit_. Goddamn lucky is what you are."

It's the most words she's ever heard him speak. They just come tumbling out, one after another after another, and it speaks to the seriousness of the situation that he's still holding her, tight and secure in his arms. If she weren't so tired, she might tease him about. But she is. She feels heavy, _exhausted_ , and she knows they're not going to make it back to camp. Not like this and not any time soon. He must know. He has to. "Daryl?" she slurs.

"Shh. Hold on. I got you."

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 **xxx**

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Sophia had a pet rabbit once. Just for a few days. The boss's son was getting one, and Ed didn't want to look bad so Sophia got one, too. It was soft, nothing more than a ball of fluff. Sweet, too. Sophia loved that rabbit, _fiercely_ , so naturally it had to go. It had to suffer so her husband could punish her. Carol still remembers that poor animal's heart pounding, just running away from it as Ed's cruel fingers tightened around its neck. Daryl's heart racing beneath her ear isn't all that different.

"Gotta stay awake. You hear me? Don't go to sleep. Don't you do it."

They're climbing. Least she thinks so. She can't be too certain. Low branches catch and pull at her sodden clothes. Daryl pants harshly into her hair, holds her tight with arms strained but sure. A couple of times, he must lose his footing, because they go down. They stop, and something sharp digs into her skin, sudden and insistent enough to wake up her sluggish nerves.

"Shit. _Shit_. You gotta wake up. You gotta."

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 **xxx**

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She must be dreaming. That's the only logical explanation.

Daryl fingers still on her buttons, and his blue eyes snap to her face, linger. Look unspeakably relieved. "Thank fuck."

"Wha…" Her tongue feels thick, her blood slow like molasses in her veins. Her hand bats at his, clumsy and uncoordinated, and her lips struggle to form a frown when he starts working the buttons free again, shoves the shirt from her quaking shoulders. Too tired to fight him anyway, she gives up, slumps back and just watches him. Canvasses their surroundings. This time, she has a little better luck when she tries to speak, but she keeps it simple. "Where?"

Daryl's hands have moved to the button of her pants now. "Some stiff's old hunting cabin."

She notices it then. The telltale black blood flecked across the bridge of his nose, disappearing into the gaping vee of his shirt. He must read the concern in her eyes, the latent disgust, because he grunts out something resembling a laugh.

"He's out back. Asshole stunk to high heaven."

His lips quirk slyly at his own joke, and Carol feels some much needed warmth spark within the depths of her abused heart.

"Gonna help me out or I gotta do all the hard work, Woman?"

He's teasing her. Least she thinks he is. She can't really be sure because it's so unlike him, but these aren't their usual circumstances, and Carol figures she come closer to checking out than she'd originally realized because he touches her with gentleness, yes. But it's more than that. It's something wholly unfamiliar to her. To him, too, if she's read him right at all, and she aches with it. "Been a while," she finally manages.

His mouth loosens into a smile. "Since somebody tried to get into your pants?"

With some effort, she lifts her hips. The corners of her mouth twitch. "Yeah." He lets something slip then, unbidden and unexpected. She can tell by the blush slowly creeping over his pale cheeks.

"Ain't the way I imagined it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

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 **xxx**

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He finds a blanket, scratchy and smelling like old mothballs but it's something. Wraps it around her shoulders and sets about building a fire while she watches him. He's shivering, just like her. She can see it all the way across the room. His hands unsteady when he tends to the kindling from out back, and no wonder. His clothes are just as soaked as hers were. After his third attempt without success, she decides to return the favor. Leach some of the burden from the set of his shoulders. Tease him. "We're going…to…freeze…to death."

"Ain't gonna let that happen."

He means it. She knows he does. Because he's Daryl, and he's a good man. She trusts him, however much the sheer physical presence of a man like him would have terrified her before the Turn. Gruff and bluntly spoken, sometimes to the point of discomfort, he's still the best man she's ever known, a man of honor, and she feels safe with him. She trusts him, and she knows he's going to see them through this. But still…

"Told you, Woman. Ain't gonna let that happen."

"I know."

"Hear you thinkin'. All the way over here," he grumbles.

His frown melts away, though, in the face of his rewarded efforts, and soon, a fire flickers to life. Chases away the shadows, softens the stubborn set of his jaw as he turns to her, and she murmurs his name, holds up the edge of her blanket. "I'm still cold."

"You gonna close your eyes?"

Carol bites her lip, _smiles_.

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 **xxx**

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